Dreams
by payroo
Summary: “You’re dead.” In his mind Zevran saw his lover’s body lifeless in his arms, drenched with blood of the great dragon. But here he was before his eyes, lovelier than ever. Were all those bitter lonely years nothing but a bad dream? Post-game angst, Zev/mPC


There had been darkness, and a flash of blinding light. Then there had been nothing at all.

But now he was awake, and he frowned in confusion as he felt the soft sheets below him. He ran his hands over them, the Antivan silk cool and pliant beneath his fingers.

"Awake already, Zev?"

And there _he_ was, leaning against the windowsill, wearing nothing but a light bathrobe, the satin dark and rich against his skin of pale gold. The ties of the robe were unfastened and the shimmering fabric hung carelessly from the slender frame of his shoulders. His dark red hair was tied behind him loosely, bangs framing the delicate planes of his face.

Zevran gaped at him in confusion. He felt as if he had not seen the Warden for the longest of times, yet he had no idea why. It was hard to think clearly.

"Still sleepy?" And he smiled, in that tender, fond way of his, and Zevran's chest throbbed with something like ineffable sadness.

"You're dead," he blurted, and the words came before the images did. In his mind he saw his lover's body lifeless in his arms, drenched with blood of the great dragon. But here he was before his eyes, lovelier than ever.

"You were having a nightmare, _mi amor_," and the soft Antivan words on the other elf's tongue sent shivers up Zevran's spine. "But it's morning now, even if you don't feel like getting out of bed." He smoothed the spot on the double bed next to Zevran and sat beside him. "It's such a lovely day out, though."

With tentative fingers, Zevran reached out to brush the Warden on the cheek, tracing the swirl of those dark tattoos up his cheekbone. His skin was warm and he leaned into the touch, smiling slightly, and Zevran already had trouble remembering the images of what must have been his nightmare. He brought his face to meet his own in a crushing kiss, savoring the appreciative little noise of surprise he made.

They made love on their luxuriant bed as the morning sun climbed higher in the sky and brought with it the everyday sounds of chatter and commerce from the street outside and below their window. Zevran hadn't realized where he was at first, but now he knew without a doubt he was home at last; the pungent smell of curing leather wafted even through the narrow crack of their open window. He sighed contentedly as he played with a lock of red hair, long since pulled loose from its tie.

"Feel like getting up now?" the Warden chuckled, head resting on his folded arms.

"Let's go out." With some reluctance, Zevran sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "It's been a while since I've walked in the glorious filthy streets of my Antiva City."

"Still hung over, Zev? You've been a little confused all morning," the other elf opened their fine oak cabinet and pulled out a simple yet well made tunic. It was strange not seeing him in his mage's robes, but the plain clothes looked good on him and Zevran didn't dwell on it. "We have been in your _glorious_ Antiva City for three years, ever since the end of the Blight."

Fully dressed, he walked to the edge of the bed and pecked Zevran on the mouth, effectively driving any confusing or worrying thoughts from his mind. "Get dressed, love, unless you want to go out in your delightful naked glory."

Arm in arm, they strutted down the stairs of their apartment like conquering heroes and the wonderful stench of the city rushed into Zevran's nostrils like an old friend. Under the odor of putrid leather lurked undertones of fish, of the salty sea, of rare spices and Zevran found himself grinning at the delightful familiarity of it all. Beside him his Warden wrinkled his straight nose.

"I still can't believe you like this smell," he said, but his lips were curved in that slight smile that drove Zevran mad.

They stopped by Zevran's favorite tavern, where the ale and prostitutes flowed freely. He ordered a large bowl of his favorite fish chowder and grinned at the idle whores as they waited, but they paid him little heed. The man on his arm was all the indication they needed of Zevran's availability.

The bowl steamed as the serving girl placed it on the table between them. Zevran inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the red pepper and paprika that he had missed so much during his travels in Ferelden. They bent over their shared bowl, foreheads almost touching as they drank the hot soup. He laughed as his Warden's eyes watered from the spiciness.

"Looks like you're a Fereldan after all, eh?" He wiped his love's eyes with a kerchief even as he spooned more of the thick chowder into the other elf's mouth.

"It's delicious," he said between the proffered bites. "I can see why you were homesick in Ferelden."

Their bellies full, they went hand in hand down to the docks, the salty winds blowing gently at their hair.

"I wish we could stay like this forever," Zevran breathed against his love's ear. He didn't know what he had done in life to deserve such perfect and absolute happiness, but it must have been something ridiculously good.

"Oh, but we can if you want to," he murmured back. Zevran drew back a bit, laughing somewhat sardonically.

"Yes, let's just say you aren't a Grey Warden and you don't have your own duties to face. We'll pretend you don't have to go back to Ferelden and rebuild your order."

"We don't have to pretend," the Warden put a hand on Zevran's cheek, thumb brushing against the Crow tattoos. "I belong with you, Zev. Here, in your home. I don't have any more duties, now that the Blight is over."

"That doesn't seem like you," and for the first time since getting up, Zevran frowned. His Warden was not one to shrink away from duty, though he hated and loved him for that. Something dark and uneasy flickered at the edges of Zevran's consciousness, and the sky itself seemed to darken just a bit. Images of his nightmare flashed through his mind, and when he turned to face his Warden all he could think of was how small and cold his corpse had been in his arms.

"Zev? What's wrong?"

He recoiled at the light touch to his elbow. His palms prickled with subconscious dread, the same feeling of foreboding that had saved his life so many times during his time as a Crow. The Warden's eyes were wide and hurt. But all Zevran could see was his face, still and expressionless in death.

"How did we defeat the archdemon?" he demanded, his head spinning and heart pounding.

"You forgot already?" Confusion was added to the hurt on his face. "It's only been three years since I killed it. You were there, love."

"Why didn't you die? I thought a Warden's sacrifice was necessary to kill the dragon." Zevran's fists were clenched, his nails threatening to break through his skin.

There was something unbearably sad in his love's face now. "Because we had all suffered enough," he said softly, "and we deserved happiness. _You_ deserved happiness. Shouldn't the heroes get to live happily ever after?"

"This is a lie," Zevran ran his hand through his Warden's hair and let it fall to his side. "You are dead, my love, though I wish it were not so."

And then, like drowning in cold water, the memories threatened to overwhelm Zevran. How the Warden had tearfully kissed him for the last time before throwing his terrifyingly frail body at the dying beast. How he had driven a sword straight through the dragon's head and then collapsed over the very sword in his hands. How peaceful his face had looked as he lay on the cold marble slab that was to be his final bed, a bed that Zevran could not share.

It was all wrong. Antiva City flickered and warped around him and he was falling into an endless chasm of darkness. All he could see was his love's tear streaked face before he fell—

And then he was at the top of Fort Drakon again, and there was his Warden, blasting the flailing archdemon with bolts of lightning. The dragon roared in pain and rage and crashed to the ground, in its final throes.

His Warden approached him, tears running clear tracks through the blood and darkspawn ichors that stained his face.

"Zevran, is this what you would rather have? Shall I die here?"

He felt sick and weak as he said, "It's out of my control. It always has been."

Without another word, the Warden pulled him into a kiss that seemed to empty the breath from his lungs. When he finally pulled away, Zevran collapsed onto the ground and could only watch helplessly as his love stabbed the dragon through the skull. The mage's frail form crumpled even as the dragon ceased its horrible twitching.

"No! I don't want this, please, no!" and Zevran was sobbing more than he ever had as a child, as a Crow apprentice, as the one left behind. He crawled on his hands and knees to where his Warden's body lay.

And as he buried his face in the mage's furred shoulder pads, he was back in Antiva City and he was holding the Warden just as he had been.

"It doesn't have to be that way, Zev, my love. Why must you fight?" There was such sadness, such longing in his Warden's eyes that he had no answer.

He knew by now that he was trapped in the Fade, much like how he had been when the sloth demon in the Circle entrapped them. His Warden had come for him, had burned his torturers to nothingness, had been a beacon of light and dare he say it, hope. He had followed him out without a second thought.

Now he was dead; he had been dead for almost thirty years and Zevran was old and tired and had no room for light or hope. He had thrown himself at the Crows hoping they would finish him, and instead he was raised as their leader. He had taken hundreds of impossible contracts, praying the next one would be the last, but the skills he had picked up on his travels had stayed with him and despite everything, he had survived. He had bitterly wondered if the fortune-teller in the whorehouse of his childhood had not foretold his future when she said he would not die young, but cursed him with longevity instead.

But he had never truly tried to end it, had never taken blade to his own throat for before that cruel final kiss, his Warden had given him one final command.

"Live, Zev. Live, for me."

It was this final command that rang through his mind even now, as he embraced the Warden and wondered at how young and full of life they both were. How tempting it was to surrender to the warm body in his arms, to abandon his pathetic life for a better one, the one that should have happened. But he could not disobey his Warden's last words to him.

He had condemned Zevran to life, and Zevran could never refuse him anything. The truth was that he did not deserve even this false happiness; he deserved only the empty and cold life of the Master Crow hated and feared by all under him. And so he had to leave this dream.

He ripped a dagger from the sheath at his waist and stabbed his love between the ribs.

"So be it," the Warden whispered, tears flowing freely from his eyes. "Go, then, to your misery. We will never meet again." He still clung to Zevran even as he stabbed him again and again, and when they were both covered in his blood he let the dagger fall to the ground and he held his love as the body grew cold—

And now he was staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom in the Crow headquarters. His hands flew to his face and he felt the wrinkles, the scars that had come over the years, and there was a hot wetness under his eyes.

A mage standing by his bedside scrambled to his feet with shock. The man next to him, a senior Crow Zevran recognized, hissed with anger.

"You said he wouldn't wake!"

"He was trapped in the Fade! He was never supposed to come out!"

Zevran quickly jumped into a fighting stance. Even without weapons he was still deadly. He easily knocked out the mage with a kick to the head and he turned to face the Crow.

The Crow lunged at him with a dagger, but Zevran sidestepped him and soon he had him by the throat, a straight hand pointed into his windpipe.

"What the hell were you trying to pull?" he snarled, trying not to heave with exertion. He had no idea how long he had been abed, but his body felt weak and not entirely under his control. "Speak and I'll kill you quickly."

"Our plan was to have you in a coma," the man gasped against the point of Zevran's hand on his throat. From his eagerness to speak, he must have heard of how the Master Crow could cause men to beg for death. "A group of senior Crows could then act in your name without having to stage an actual coup. So we hired a blood mage."

"Enough," Zevran was true to his word and he twisted the man's head abruptly, his vertebrae making a horrid cracking sound. He slit the throat of the unconscious mage with the Crow's dagger.

He had survived again, despite everything. He would drink the bitter dregs of his punishment and live, for that was what his Warden had willed of him. And he could never deny his love anything.


End file.
